For some, an October 30 story in the Los Angeles Times was saddening news. Many missed it, though they were engaged in a continuing discussion about horses. Few missed the same story in Monday’s Washington Post.
Yet that “news” was not news. It too reported that “protected” wild horses – 1,793 of them – were purchased by Colorado rancher Tom Davis. He sent them to Mexican slaughter houses. He’d been doing this for some time. But he had told the Bureau of Land Management he was “adopting” the animals for “good homes.”
Davis was actually trucking them to Mexico to be slaughtered. The meat was shipped to Europe and Asia, places with an appetite for horse meat.
Earlier exchanges here on treatment of horses issued from a report of rustlers stealing a Mexican friend’s livestock. “As we raced after the cuarteros, I shouted to him not shoot the thieves but the horses.” Some readers were appalled at that article. But he was a good shot; if he’d hit one of the cuarteros it meant police and politicos: Trouble and little chance of judicial logic. Luckily, the rustlers broke off into the mountain brush. We quickly rounded up the stock.
When I was tyke learning the ways living on a series of ranches in the Great Plains, dealing with stock was something everyone learned early –just as soon a they could hoist themselves onto the back of a horse. Far back in the countryside, some folks, widow women, still drove buggies.
But if you were just a kid, you had to get someone to bridle and saddle a tame horse for you. They figured you knew how to climb aboard your mount.
William Johnson is a big land-owner who ran large herds of cattle back when the economy was good. He wanted the best livestock handlers he could hire. That was a Mexican clan of border vaqueros. Their kin were the first to handle horses and cattle way back when. And they were still known for their livestock savvy. Headquartered along the Rio Grande, their reputation reached a long way north. Luis Ruiz and some of his large family were persuaded to come north with a herd of horses and cattle. They had a rough time getting north, I heard. One of his riders had a boy about my age who had his own horse and often a chance to help riders with their work. I envied Neto Garcia, and soon he was showing me some of the things he’d learned from his father and brothers. That sped up my learning. He was a fine rider. And patient with gringos.
That was a time when there were a lot wild ponies around. The economy had gone wavery, and some ranchers didn’t always have the resources to go after run-off stock. One afternoon, Neto and I were riding fence, wrestling sagging wire and loose posts, and telling tall tales, when we saw two fine-looking gray geldings coming along a nearby trail. Carefully, we split to either side of the trail to get a better look.
They were a fine pair. We threw our loops on the handsome pair. They were pretty civilized and didn’t give us a lot of trouble. “So what are we going to do with them?” I said.
“Pos, that isn’t your horse,” he said. “And this isn’t mine. It belongs to my primo, Salvador.” Neto narrowed his eyes. “If we could get these grays somewhere that isn’t familiar with local stock, they’d be easy to sell. Then buy our own horses.”
“But they could know the brands,” I said.
“My cousin says there’s a spot up north where the law is pretty slack.” Neto often had some pretty surprisingly adult ideas on the dangerous side of things.
“Well, Ogallala used to be a big cattle town. But it’s shrunk. It’s on hard times.”
“That means people there will be looking for business, no? We could sell these and buy horses nobody knows.”
“Where do you get these ideas?” I asked.
“My cousin did some of this in Mexico.”
“Ever get caught?”
“Never.”
“We could take these to Colorado,” I said. “The next state west. Not far.”
“You know anyone there?”
“I”ll get a name from my rodeo brother, Bob – Roberto.”
“Bueno. Someone who knows how to take good care of good horses. But what do you tell your family? We need good stories.”
“I’ll tell my folks we’re going to see some relatives of your family living there,” I said. “You tell your folks that I’m taking you over there to meet some friends of my folks. Our families never ever talk. We won’t have to worry.”
Neto nodded. “Bueno.” He frowned. “Ever wonder why they don’t ever talk?”
“It’s what they call prejudice, I think. Adults up here are that way. They have weird ideas. A friend, Lloyd Chingren, lives with his mom by railroad tracks. My parents don’t want me to go there. They say the Chingrens are a ‘bad influence.’”
“We thought it was because we’re Mexicans. The Chingrens are gringos like you?”
“Yeah. It doesn’t make sense. It’s what they mean by prejudice up here.”